Halved.

Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros - Janglin

Bombay Bicycle Club - How Can You Swallow So Much Sleep

Third Eye Blind - Palm Reader

Aretha Franklin - Ain't No Way

A less scientific way to explain prisms:

When your fingers are intertwined with another's and you suddenly see different parts of yourself with laser clarity. You are no longer pure light.  Flesh to flesh, you are a forest fire, wiping out acres of land, desperate to be rid of your thirst for thousand-year-old sequoias.  Your flames grow taller than folklore giants and for one tiny fraction of a second, the embers appear to dissolve into the empyrean sun.

That unsettled heart which was once so green, muddled with jealousy and distrust, now thrashes against your chest to spring out of it's skeletal box. And when you look at the blue veins on the back of your hands creeping up to your fingers -his fingers- that seem to carry on all the way to his wrists, you understand that this is the closest you'll ever get to the gospel truth.

Under a sheet of indigo sky you lay, surrounded by splitting asteroids and indiscernible vortices; there is no safe way out of this galaxy. In the dark, his voice makes every word sound like rich purple prose; there is no safe way around that either. But you hold on to those glass fingers nonetheless and tie up the loose ends of his sentences like you would on any other day. This time, you're ready to be split into pieces.

Langkawi Chronicles. (Sort of) (Maybe) (Maybe Not)

Day 1: Flying makes me nervous. This is a known fact. Even as I traced the faint outlines of mountain ranges in the distance on that sad excuse of a window I had to consciously remind myself to forget about the frailty of the aluminium can I was on. A plethora of accidents ran through my mind; engines failing, bolts coming loose, someone forgetting to pressurize the cabin. Murphy's law; need I explain? I took a deep breath and watched the wings glide above miles and miles of clouds that bore an uncanny resemblance to snow covered trees. Indiana Jones had his snake pit, I have my aeroplanes.

Day 2: The novelty of cycling never wears off. Furious pedaling as the bicycle chains violently rattle against its rings, so desperate to break free. Palms marked redder with each tightened grip on the rubber handlebars. Balancing my entire weight on a thin metal frame. And when those spokes shimmer golden in the sun, I swear to you, there is no other feeling.

Day 3: "Dah cuba?" (Have you tried?) I thought of my life as the sun set a purple hue to the evening sky. How many times have I claimed ownership to another person's heart and yet refused to step up when the going got tough? I've lost count. How many times have I whimpered in my sleep, left at the mercy of a telephone call? I've lost count. At the time, I was too engrossed with my past to realize that the islander was talking about jet skis and not my attempts to love wholeheartedly without losing my footing. I answered with a swift, "Dah cuba dah." (I've tried.)

Day 4: I'll let you in on a little secret: a part of me never came back home. Breathe, survive, repeat.

Cyan Skies.

 

 

 

Khasma.

You passed by and I breathed in butterflies. Their razor wings leave incisions, so delicately tearing away fragments of the past buried under hardened skin and coiled eyelashes. Inside of me, I feel ivies scaling jagged cliffs, creeping inside ravines; across the vast canyons in my heart where faith once gushed like secret rivers. In the deepest chasms of this weary land, your voice ricochets off stony walls; I hear it in my sleep. I saw you and I felt life take root.

And if the words I speak were written down, your name would appear in parentheses between frivolous professions of truth; like bubbles of thought that dare not escape the spiraling labyrinth of my subconscious.

****************

Thank you for leaving your secrets with me. You can read them here.

It's only fitting that I seal this project with a secret of my own. I met him once on campus (another time, a little while after) and I was stuck in a daze for weeks. Months later, the thought of him still gives me this weird feeling in my gut that I can only describe as a cross between exhilaration and genuine anxiety. This post is about him, obviously.

Happy birthday, Thickety-Split.

Looped Tracks.

Passenger Seat - Death Cab for Cutie

"Then looking upwards

I strain my eyes and try to tell the difference between shooting stars and satellites."

Never Let Me Go - Florence + The Machine
 
"And it's over
And I'm going under
But I'm not giving up
I'm just giving in."

A Comet Appears - The Shins

"But the lonely is such delicate things,
The wind from a wasp could blow them into the sea,
With stones on their feet,
Lost to the light and the loving we need,
Still to come the worst part and you know it,
There is a numbness in your heart and it's growing."

Better Off Without You - Summer Camp

"He doesn't want you, can't you see?
He doesn't love you, why won't you listen to me?"

Leave a Secret.

My blog's turning a year old soon so I thought it'd be cool if I could commemorate its one year anniversary with a semi-interactive post.

I've enabled the 'anonymous' feature on the comments' section so feel free to drop a secret about yourself/someone you know/a situation you're in that you just want to let out or/and have been harboring for much too long.

Conditions are:

• You can write as much as you want.
• It can be in any language, as long as the message gets across.
• DO NOT leave any sort of identification. No hints, no initials, not even inside jokes. 

I can't track down IP addresses for the life of me,  so you can rest assured knowing that this is a safe space.

Thanks for reading my blog. If this is your first time here, hey whassshappninnnn?! Grab a chair. 

Oh and Happy (pre) Birthday, Thickety-split.